


Duetto di Desiderio

by HolmesFan



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood Drinking, F/M, Hunter!Elizabeth, I will not apologize for art., Mutual Pining, Norribeth, PWP (Porn With Pointy teeth), Shameless Smut, vampire!James
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26024932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesFan/pseuds/HolmesFan
Summary: Elizabeth Swann always gets what she wants. One way or another. And James is helpless to give it to her.
Relationships: James Norrington/Elizabeth Swann
Comments: 45
Kudos: 82





	1. Legato

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Elizabeth wants James.

_How do I even begin to move on?_

The low-burning fire provides no advice, no solace, no comfort. Just heat and a dull wash of orange light that paints shifting brushstrokes across the presented face of everything in her private sitting room while drenching all else in flickering shadow. But even the heat is not enough, for despite swaddling herself in her best dressing gown, draping a woolen shawl across her shoulders, and positioning the high back chair as near the hearth as she dares, Elizabeth is chilled down to her soul.

A somber rumble of thunder adds its voice to the arrhythmic pop and hiss of the indifferent blaze, sonorous and sullen and equally unhelpful. It heralds a long anticipated break in the boiling clouds, which have lingered overhead, growing ever more heavy for the better part of three days. One, two, ten, and then a thousand raindrops patter against the row of windows flanking the terrace doors. The deluge drums hollowly against the roof.

And still there is no answer to her question.

Her gaze remains ensnared by the dancing flames, the glowing embers, the sporadic sparks- until it loses its intensity and becomes something altogether more abstract, as if what she seeks lies not in the fire, but beyond it: through the andiron, the elaborate stonemasonry, and the floor itself. Perhaps deep within the rain lashed earth. Perhaps further.

Whatever the case, it is unreachable. And it changes nothing.

James is gone. And he had the gall to leave her behind.

Elizabeth’s eulogy had been an exercise in ambiguity, rife with double meanings left open to interpretation by the modest gathering of dour mourners, of which there were those that knew him, and those that _knew_ him. His trust...his regard...his private smiles. The latter was a much smaller number, but within their ranks was a smaller number still: those that knew his true calling. A calling he and she had shared. The first thread that had bound them together. The Hunt.

They’d buried sandbags. A farce committed on holy ground that felt sacreligious for more than just the lie. And as they shoveled the cold, dark soil over the pine box that did not contain his beloved bones, Elizabeth had understood that his true grave would be her heart.

He’d always had some manner of residence there. But now it would be less a home, and more a sepulchre. How macabre.

So much left to do...and now, she must face it alone. Or send for a new partner. Both options are equally untenable.

James was her father’s friend first, an alliance that appeared to outsiders to have been built upon political compatibility and mutual goals, but Elizabeth always knew the truth of it. He was the son her father never had, a living, breathing substitute for the stillborne corpse that made one of her mother as well. She was yet a girl when James inadvertently joined their twice fractured family, but, unlike her father, her inclinations toward him, while similarly open and affectionate, were never strictly familial.

And then, at the tender age of thirteen, she’d manifested her Gift while in the throes of some inconsequential tantrum. A cryptic letter from The Order arrived eerily soon afterward, and James reintroduced himself as a Senior Hunter, offering his services as an instructor and mentor in a way that conveyed it was much less a suggestion than a sentence to be carried out.

Never had a metaphorical headsman’s axe arced so sweet, for it guaranteed her his undivided attention, his vested interest in her development, and his permanent fixture into her life. And, in spite of the gruesome and arduous nature of her new-found fate, Elizabeth secretly rejoiced at the prospect of being the sole object of his indomitable focus.

So, as she worked to become an accomplished lady, she also trained to join the Hunt, learning French alongside archery, music alongside fencing, and art alongside sharpshooting. She learned how to play the pianoforte and how to pick off a moving target at a hundred yards. How to embroider cushions and how to incapacitate an opponent with a single, well-placed blow to the throat. How to dance a quadrille and how to apply enough force to drive stake through layers of cloth, fat, and flesh.

She was a quick study in all she applied herself to, and the many tutors of her more civilized endeavors were duly impressed, generous with their flattery and commendation. But their lofty praise paled in comparison to James’ tacit approval, his subtle encouragement, and the occasional flash of pride in his incalculably green eyes.

Oh, how she had coveted that pride. It spurred her to action more than any vague promise of destiny ever could. She was his dedicated disciple, determined to prove herself worthy of one day fighting at his side. Partners.

And she had. Of course she had. It was what she wanted most in the world, and Elizabeth Swann always gets what she wants. One way or another.

When she was old enough, strong enough, tested enough within the confines of her training that even a perfectionist like James could vouch for her being ready, The Order had granted her a second boon in the form of an official edict that she must graduate from her training and take her oath as James’ Second. Neither of them were particularly surprised by the decree, and Elizabeth liked to imagine James was at least a fraction as pleased as she was by it.

The subsequent years saw them accumulating success after success. Before his mandated furlough from hunting in order to concentrate on Elizabeth’s tutelage, James had been a Hunter of some acclaim, a veritable ‘Scourge of Vampyrism.’ Together, they exceeded the already towering expectations of him and went on to forge a reputation as the most effective team to ever safeguard their corner of the realm from the threat of evil, due in no small part to the compatibility of their skills.

They were in perfect sync even from the beginning, an extension of one another. Two limbs of the same body. Two lobes of the same mind. Two chambers of the same heart.

As their professional relationship evolved, so too did their casual acquaintanceship. And while time spent with James the Tutor was precious, time spent with James the Man was divine. Elizabeth had adored him from the beginning, for he was handsome and interesting and treated her as if the things she’d had to say were actually important- a rare quality in an adult she wasn’t related to. That adoration only deepened as she grew to actually know him: his manner and habits, his wry humor and rapier wit, his logic-steeped opinions and jealously guarded aspirations.

He was a man of immeasurable depth. A man of inestimable restraint. And everything she observed of his curious innerworkings was a product of carefully detecting the meaning behind his meaning, of dissecting his every word and expression to discern the spirit beneath it. In this way, his previously inscrutable visage transformed into something only she could read. And that familiarity bred an easy friendship. They could converse for hours on nothing and everything, or sit just as long in companionable silence.

But that familiarity began to evolve too, her respect and admiration gaining new scope and form, becoming something altogether more complex and pervasive. Something thrilling and terrifying in equal measure. Something that tainted every move she made and every word she spoke. He may as well have been in her veins.

Desire, she realized. Ever-present and all-encompassing. She wanted more. She wanted _him._ In ways she had never wanted before.

But duty was too important to James. And he took the professional nature of even the unprofessional aspects of their relationship too seriously for her to believe he’d ever be willing to breach that divide. There had been moments where she’d almost convinced herself he wanted her too, but they were few and always fleeting.

It would have been tremendously in character for him to deny himself something he wanted out of obligation, but even that, coupled with her suspicions of his returning her feelings, was never enough to induce her to push with any real force. Not when she could instead end up pushing him away entirely.

So, when the wanting of him became too much to bear, she had taken other lovers, and satisfied herself by picturing him in their stead. His eyes. His hands. His lips. It was enough. It had to be. At least for a while.

Elizabeth always figured there would be time. Time enough for him to open up, to change his mind. Time enough for _her_ to change his mind. Time enough for him to recognize that she was no longer his pupil, but a woman. A woman who yearned for him. Whose fondness had long ago morphed into attraction.

Elizabeth always figured that someday, she would relay to him all the tender feelings she kept bottled inside. That she would achieve the exquisite catharsis of being laid bare to him in every sense of the term.

She always figured...someday...he might let her love him. And love her in return.

But now…

It has been nearly a fortnight since he abandoned her. And she is still utterly without direction, rudderless in a sea of grief. The echo of his final words still reverberate around the cavity of her skull.

_Go. I will follow._

Except he hadn’t. He’d sent her from the cavern to lead the rescued captives to safety and stayed behind to facilitate their escape. She’d argued, attempted to sway him, but he would not have it. He’d ordered her to go despite her appeals. And then he’d lied in the same breath.

_I will follow_

He should have. He _could_ have. She could have _helped_ him. Was that not what he’d trained her to do? But instead of trusting her, he’d lied. And then she’d watched him die, struck down by the ancient evil they’d been pursuing so vigorously for the better part of a decade. He’d fallen to his knees as she helplessly screamed his name, starting back for him. And then, in a final act of defiance, he’d collapsed the tunnel between them. Cutting her off. Sealing himself in. A tomb.

It has been nearly a fortnight, and she has gone from wanting him to love her to merely wanting him back.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

An unfamiliar sound emerges from the consistent drumbeat of the rain. It draws Elizabeth from her brown study and back into the still air of her sitting room. She straightens in the chair, hands grasping the arms, abruptly on alert.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Her narrowed eyes slide to the covered terrace doors. Lightning strikes in the distance, its erratic glow spilling around the curtains, trailed by a peal of rolling thunder which has grown in volume since the last. The storm is nearing. But her instincts tell her that is not all that waits on her doorstep.

Elizabeth slips from her perch, stealing forward on silent feet to the corner table where she’s left her pistol and small sword. She grabs up the latter, and then approaches the doors warily, ears straining.

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

She peeks around the edge of the curtains and sees only darkness outside. But the thrum of her adrenaline, the prickling of her skin, they are signals she’s learned to heed. She grips the hilt of her weapon a bit tighter, and waits.

A jagged bolt of lightning splits the sky, and the unseen interloper is promptly thrown into sharp relief. Her sword clatters to the floorboards, and she flings open the terrace doors the very next instant.

A draft billows through the curtains, bringing with it the scent of rain and the tang of electricity. The fire gutters and falters in the onslaught, but burns on, illuminating her midnight visitor.

He is soaked and disheveled. His clothes are tattered and torn. His hair is loose, and his face unshaven, but despite all, he is immediately recognizable.

‘James.’

It comes out as barely a whisper. She is frozen, her mind blank, her mouth hanging open. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just holds her disbelieving gaze as the rain washes over him, streams down his clothing, drips off the end of his nose.

Elizabeth shakes out of her trance with a sudden surge of acute relief. James. Her James. He didn’t lie. He did follow. She goes to take a step across the threshold-

‘Don’t,’ he warns, his voice deep and gravelly. ‘Come no closer.’ She halts, a question dying on her lips as he adds, ‘You must not invite me in.’

She nearly asks him why, but the fevered, almost feral gleam in his eye silences her. She recalls, with anguished clarity, the blow that felled him. The cascade of tumbling rock. He didn’t survive. He couldn’t have.

_He’s been turned._

The revelation is accompanied by another streak of lightning and subsequent growl of thunder. Something splinters inside her, something she suspects to be the tinkling shards of what remained of her heart.

For James, to be turned would be a fate far worse than death. It could only have been forced upon him. And, knowing their enemy, it was likely done as revenge.

Cruel. Especially to her.

Her expression is utterly slack when she finally forges through the crushing return of her grief and summons the ability to speak. ‘Why have you come?’

James looks away. His shame is a palpable thing, manifesting as a bitterness on her tongue and a tingle on her skin.

‘To end it.’

Simple words, but their implication is devastating. He means to entreat her to stake him. As if she could. As if she _would._ After _he_ was the one with the audacity to die and leave her behind in the first place! The unmitigated nerve of him!

Her rising fury threads her clipped response. ‘Why did you not come sooner?’

‘I was...unable.’ He closes his eyes before meeting hers again. ‘I was not myself.’ There is a short pause before he corrects, ‘I _am_ not.’

The period after a turning- the rampage- she knows the pattern well. It’s why the newly afflicted are such a danger. But two weeks is still too long a time. She states as much.

‘I was held. Somewhere dark and…’ He stops, tries again. ‘It took me time to escape.’

‘I see.’ So he had been a kept thing. It certainly was consistent with the character of their foe. That he’d managed to abscond at all was a testament to his tenacity. That, or it had been permitted. Neither option conjures particularly heartening imagery.

James interrupts her thoughts to state his purpose again. ‘You must end it.’

More lightning. More thunder. The maelstrom is upon them. Elizabeth swallows down the bile that has worked up into her throat.

‘No.’

He is vexed by her quiet, yet firm, refusal. His brows knit as his mouth dips into a severe frown. ‘It was not a request.’

She crosses her arms over her chest, her lip lifting in a snarl. ‘I don’t believe you have the right to give me orders anymore.’

This only serves to displease him further, something she has spent a staggering amount of time and energy trying to avoid. Now she finds that’s precisely what she means to do. The devil take his sense of duty. He’d abdicated all authority when he’d abandoned her.

‘Do you not see what I am?’ This attempt is almost a plea.

James has never pleaded with her, or anyone else, for anything. Nor has he ever appeared so...distraught. Elizabeth is suddenly weary in a way she’s never known. She sighs before murmuring, ‘Come inside, James.’

He appears stricken by the invitation, the permission. But it sounded too much like an entreaty, so she repeats it, louder this time, command in her tone. ‘Come inside.’

Several emotions dash across his face in rapid succession. Astonishment. Recalcitrance. Chagrin. But they culminate in defeat, and James does as he’s bade.

Elizabeth closes the doors, draws the curtains, and then goes to stoke the fire. All the while, James stands dripping on the fine carpet- a trifling testament to the change that’s come over him. _Her_ James would never presume to create such a mess.

Once her task is finished, she moves to lean against the back of the chair, recrossing her arms and eying him expectantly.

‘You have staked countless other abominations,’ he accuses.

‘Indeed I have.’

‘And yet you hesitate now?’ There is unrestrained venom in his challenge. Does he mean to needle her into slaying him by threatening her professional record? He should know better. Elizabeth has never been one to do anything against her will.

‘It is not hesitation if I have no intention of doing it, James.’ She punctuates the use of his name, a reminder of his identity. The person he was...and perhaps still can be.

His answering scoff shows he does not care for the reminder.

‘So what _do_ you intend?’

She mulls that over for a moment. It is a fair question to ask, and one that requires some measure of deliberation. If she isn’t going to stake him, what are her other options? Things cannot be as they once were. But perhaps...perhaps…

‘I’ll find a cure.’

He scoffs again, and it irks her. This incivility is entirely beneath him. Or at least it used to be.

‘I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

‘And so, therefore, it cannot possibly exist?’ she counters testily.

‘Therefore, it is a fool’s errand. And a waste of time.’

They’ve never argued like this before. Such petulance on her part is not unheard of, but on his? Thoroughly alien. In the past he either pulled rank to end any heated discourse, or opted to bow out. He has never entertained any sort of bickering.

‘You don’t know that. There could be something in the archives. Something as yet overlooked. Or maybe-’

‘Don’t be so naive, Elizabeth. You cannot make something true just by wishing it so.’

Her brows lower at the rancor in his riposte. ‘And so it would be better to drive a stake through your heart? Do you really believe me capable of doing such a thing?’

‘One would hope,’ he enunciates darkly, ‘that you would not shirk your sworn duty. You cannot have forgotten your oath already.’

‘I have not forgotten,’ she spits back with equal vitriol. ‘But I am not so rigid in my keeping of it that I would resort to killing you before attempting to find some other recourse.’

‘There _is_ no other recourse!’

He has never raised his voice at her in anger before. Panic jolts through her. Followed swiftly by righteous indignation. ‘You don’t _know_ that-’

‘I am an abomination, Elizabeth! A parasite! You cannot allow cowardice to stay your hand!’

‘And those are the words of a gentleman?!’ she seethes. ‘You have now named me an oathbreaker, a coward, and a fool. Are there any other insults you wish to level at me?!’

James sucks in a breath, all wrath evaporating in an instant. His gaze drops to his clenched fists, and he releases them to stare at his open palms with an expression that is half dejection, half horror. Then he abruptly turns on his heel and stalks to the far corner of the room, his back to her as he faces the wall.

Elizabeth is reeling as if struck. This performance, all of it, from the moment he entered her home, has been the most visible demonstration of feeling she’s ever seen from him. But his rage is not half so unsettling as her realization that it is borne of fear.

James is afraid. And the knowledge of it feels like a punch to the gut.

It makes her want to hold him. It makes her want to _hit_ him.

She does neither, instead approaching him as she would a wounded animal: slowly, calmly, and with measured steps. By the time she’s reached him, his shoulders have slumped and his neck has bowed, his forehead resting against the wallpaper. His misery is so profound, it fills his voice.

‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth.’

He looks so broken. So vulnerable. It’s so very different from the impeccable facade he’s always presented to the world. To her. Even as they’d gotten close, he’d always meted out the pieces of himself he’d meant to share in small, precious doses. The naked emotion he is emitting now is dizzying in its intensity, causing her to wonder how much is a product of his condition and how much had been there before, locked behind the iron bars of his restraint.

‘James. Look at me.’

He does.

‘I’m not giving up on you. But that means you cannot give up either.’

Elizabeth reaches out a hand and gently brushes her fingers under his chin, prompting him to pull away from the wall and turn his head toward her.

‘We will find another way. And in the meantime, we will continue our work.’

Meaning the Hunt. Having a purpose might be just what James needs to endure the unique and terrible demands of his affliction. But more than that, the accompanying abilities he’s gained could prove quite advantageous in a partner. Granted, as he is considered by all to be dead and buried, some prudence will be necessary. But their foe is still out there. And this could give them an edge over Him.

‘What will you tell The Order?’ he asks evenly.

‘Nothing.’

He scoffs, though this time there is no outrage in it.

‘For now,’ she remarks dismissively, ‘they need not know.’

He shakes his head, something like a smile playing on his lips. ‘And you do not believe the high counsel will be as merciful as you?’

She quirks a brow at the almost teasing cadence of his tone. ‘I wasn’t aware that sparing you was a mercy. But no. I do not anticipate they shall be. However, they are half a world away, and I am more than capable of being discreet.’

‘It is not _your_ capacity for discretion that I doubt,’ he mutters disparagingly.

‘I have every confidence in your formidable self-control, James,’ she returns flatly.

His answering expression says he disagrees, but he remains silent. Which proves that she has been successful in appealing to his practical nature. She senses that, in spite of his personal objections, he is teetering on the edge of acquiescing to her plans.

But not without terms, it seems.

James pins her with sharp eyes, visage starkly serious. ‘Very well, Elizabeth. We shall do it your way for now. But only if you promise me this: if there comes a time I can no longer control myself, if this...thing I have become takes over, you will not waver. You will destroy me.’

At this, he extends an open hand, gaze searching hers. She takes it in both of her own.

‘I promise,’ she lies.

For if he can lie to save _her,_ then she can lie to save him.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, dear readers! It is I, your loyal Norribeth Filth Wizard, returned from my sabbatical to bring you a brand new Vampire AU! And on my birthday no less!
> 
> The idea was seeded in my mind during a conversation with the illustrious, and wondrously creative, [dangerbats](https://dangerbats.tumblr.com/), and I could know no peace until I purged the resulting 'plotline' from my brain. You know how it is.
> 
> As always, I live for your feedback, my darlings! Here, and over on [my tumblr](https://norrington-hell.tumblr.com/). So please let me know what you think!
> 
> I do fully intend to make use of that E rating by the end, so keep a weather eye on the horizon! I'll be back soon. ♡


	2. Adagio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which James wants Elizabeth.

_How do I even begin to move on?_

Everything is different now. Everything. And while James has always, at the very least, accepted change, he’s never been particularly fond of it. His preferences on such matters have generally had little impact on their nature, and he has always prided himself on his adaptability, but still. Change is uncomfortable. Change is difficult. It can be necessary. And even kinder in the long run. But knowing these truths does not mitigate the fact that change is an uneasy thing. And it is very often painful.

Thirty years of practice could not possibly have prepared James for this _latest_ change. Frankly, he doubts any amount of time would have. Because, for all his planning and plotting, for all his contingencies and fall-backs, he’d never seriously considered the prospect that he, himself, might be turned. It was simply outside the scope of what he could anticipate. Instead, he’d counted on his death being the end of things. And the hubris of this oversight is rivaled only by its naiveté.

He’d sought a way out, mercy in the form of an end at the hands of the only person he’s ever trusted enough to ask for it. But she denied him. Elizabeth denied him. So James must learn to adapt once more, all the while cognizant that, even though he has almost nothing left to lose, the stakes have never been so high. How ironic.

But then, his life has been rife with such ironies. Not the least of which centers upon Elizabeth herself.

James has always wanted her. In one form or another.

At first, it was a purely innocent and guileless thing. He was not long friends with her father before they were introduced, and he can still recall with perfect clarity the endearing clumsiness of her curtsy and the subsequent deluge of questions about his interests and hobbies. These had been deftly disregarded by the Governor in favor of dinner, but her fervent curiosity never waned.

Elizabeth was a whimsical creature, bold and spirited and nigh indefatigable, and James could not help but be utterly charmed by her. She was the sort of child whose friendship would have benefitted him substantially as a lonely, solemn boy, for she overflowed with passion and life. But that boy was still inside him, buried beneath years of hard work and heartbreak, and every moment spent with her seemed to ease the abiding weight of his past.

James found it equal parts entertaining and flattering, the way she would sit him down to discuss topics she’d very obviously researched or would show off a piece that she had plainly been practicing on the pianoforte. She would instigate all manner of games, including him in her magical imaginary world, and he was only too happy to indulge her. Such quixotic occupation was a welcome distraction from the morbid nature of his work.

The violence, the jeopardy, the brutal gore of the Hunt...all that darkness burned away in her light. He’d arrive on the Swann’s doorstep, grim and discouraged, only to be tugged inside by an exceedingly eager Elizabeth, her fine-boned hand wrapped around his as she dragged him into whatever new scheme caught her fancy.

The Governor had delighted in the bond that formed between them, and he was equally earnest in his efforts to make James feel welcomed. At first James found it unsettling, for he was in no way accustomed to fatherly affection, but Weatherby Swann was every bit as persistent as his daughter, albeit more gentle in his execution.

When he looks back on it, James is still hard-pressed to pinpoint when he’d relaxed into the warmth of their treatment of him. He couldn’t say when exactly he’d started seeing them as _his._ But he had. As he was theirs. Family.

The whole of humanity is too broad a thing to picture. The Realm is too abstract. But Elizabeth- with her toothy grin and freckled nose and messy curls? Weatherby- with his kind eyes and soothing chuckle and magnanimous manner? _They_ were much easier to picture. In fact, they would often fly unbidden into his thoughts. So to James they became a placeholder for humanity. They became the Realm.

And somehow, fighting for _them_ made all the difference.

That is, until Elizabeth manifested her Gift: a catalyst that would throw life as he knew it into complete disarray, requiring him to adapt yet again.

At first, James was upset by his reassignment, switching back and forth between quiet acrimony and ferocious indignation. This was the reward for all his years of tireless dedication to the will of The Order? To be torn from his position on the front lines, a position he’d done more with in his scant five years as a Senior Hunter than most had in their lifetimes, and be relegated to the role of glorified nursemaid to a girl with no prior training and no knowledge of their fight whatsoever? Such a decision was tantamount to an insult!

To say nothing of what the disclosure of his true calling might do to his relationship with…the Swanns.

Not for the first time, James had been struck by how life can be so monumentally unfair.

But he’d swallowed his dignity with a dash of salt and done his duty in spite of the roiling tumult within him, paying the Swanns a very different sort of visit than all those before and offering his service in careful phrasing that brooked no argument.

Weatherby took it all in graceful stride, as he did with everything. His trust in James never faltered. If anything, he only seemed more impressed by the truth. And Elizabeth- her reaction at being informed of her fate verged upon giddy. An odd response, but then, she was an odd child. And James supposed that if he had to step down from his post to mentor anyone, at least it was her. For there was no one else he could have put his own aspirations on hold for, not without resenting them personally.

However, it did not take long for James to gain an understanding of why he’d been selected for the task. Even at thirteen, Elizabeth had more untamed power than many of the hunters he had encountered thus far. She needed guidance, to be taught discipline and restraint, to learn how to harness and channel that power into intent. And, as willful as she was, it was unlikely she’d take direction from some tedious, white-wigged, patronizing stranger.

Moreover, James could see something of himself in the way Elizabeth promptly took to her training. Traits emerged from within her that had only been hinted at before. She was every bit as cunning as she was tenacious. She was ambitious and sharp, with a streak of opportunism that he had to pretend not to be amused by. She was a quick-study in all things he put before her, and the pride he had in her accomplishments- it was fierce enough they may as well have been his own.

Before long, James realized he _wanted_ to be her mentor. That it could not have been anyone else to guide her down this path. And each day, each week, each month that he devoted to her training, saw him willing to wait that much longer to return to his previous plans. She needed him. Elizabeth _needed_ him. And he would be there. Until duty or death took him from her.

Years passed, and The Order remained in contact, requesting regular updates on Elizabeth’s progress. Each missive he sent saw James more apprehensive than the last, for her proficiency only grew, and James knew better than anyone that that meant the expectations of her would grow as well.

The Hunt is a perilous lifestyle, and not one he would wish upon someone who had become so dear. Eventually, if everything progressed as The Order intended, she would graduate from his tutelage and be given a supporting position alongside another Senior Hunter. But the closer that day loomed, the more James was resolved that no other superior would do. Even though he’d only ever worked alone before, she must be _his_ second. It was the only way he could be sure of her success. The only way he could continue to protect her.

And so, it came to pass that at the age of eighteen, Elizabeth received the formal edict requiring her to swear her oath as James’ second. She seemed as unsurprised as he, though it could not have been for the same reason, for he’d never told her about his trip to appear before the high counsel in person. He’d never told her that he’d all but fallen to his knees as he pleaded his case, _their_ case. He’d never told her that he’d had to offer up his entire legacy as collateral in order to be granted his wish.

But they had granted it. And that was all that mattered. That, and the mixture of pride and pleasure in Elizabeth’s eyes as she’d accepted her calling and officially become his partner.

It was in that exact moment that James had the catastrophic epiphany that Elizabeth was no longer a child. That, somewhere along the line, the mischievous, befreckled imp with scabs on her elbows and leaves in her hair had transformed into the capable, poised, and devastatingly beautiful young woman taking a knee in before him.

An inconvenient revelation, if there ever was one. And it only grew to be more so.

Together, they were a nigh unstoppable force in the field, far surpassing his own accomplishments, and indeed, those of any dyad that had come before them. It was satisfying to return to the fray, and even better to have someone at his back in whom he could completely trust.

James was the lead, as was expected, but that didn’t mean Elizabeth took a passive role. Oh, no. If she had ideas or opinions, she was never shy about sharing them, skirting the line of insubordination on more than one occasion. Her dissent, while often feeling a provocation, never manifested as outright noncompliance, though. And, if James was honest, the flare of fight she sometimes turned upon him was...singularly exhilarating.

Not that he could ever let _her_ know that.

As time wore on, the list of things he could not tell her only lengthened. He could not tell her that the scent of the rosewater solution she used to set her hair followed him into his dreams, causing him to wake with a start to the inevitable disappointment that she was not beside him. He could not tell her that casual brush of her fingers over his skin as good as branded him, and it would take days before he could no longer feel the ghost of her touch. He could not tell her that he’d spent countless sleepless nights sketching her like a man possessed, snagging on the long line of her neck, the soft swell of her hips, the berry-ripe bow of her lips.

Somewhere along the line she’d bewitched him. And oh, how he wanted to be hers. She may as well have been in his veins.

There’d been a point where it had become too much, where James had saddled up in the dead of night and rode straight to Elizabeth’s home, half-dressed and sick with longing, his heart beating to quarters in his chest. He’d mounted the portico steps two at a time only to be informed by the doorman that she was entertaining another gentleman caller and did not wish to be disturbed. When asked if he’d like to leave a message, it was all James could do to affect a polite ‘no’ and slink back off into the darkness.

He’d gotten more drunk that night than ever before or since.

He had waited too long. And he had doomed himself to a fate of fruitlessly hating the nameless, faceless men she loved instead of him. And he did hate them, lapsing into vindictive fantasies of pistols at dawn and crossing swords in the moonlight. Fantasies of watching the life leave their eyes by his design. Fantasies of scooping her into his arms before her erstwhile lovers’ blood was even cold, and kissing her into a frenzy until she begged him to touch her. To taste her. To fill her. To claim her.

Just as she’d already claimed him. Body and soul.

But fantasies they had remained. And James buried his love deep in the stoney soil of his heart. Partners would have to be enough. At least it meant that he could still be by her side.

And he was. Until duty and death took him from her.

_Go. I will follow._

When he’d ordered her to leave, he’d almost kissed her. Almost fed her some line about destinies entwined. But the defiance in her eyes dried up his piffling sentimentality. She meant to disobey. So he’d lied. He’d lied to save her. And then he’d collapsed the tunnel to ensure her escape.

Perhaps she would hate him for it...but at least she would be alive to do so.

As the strength ebbed from his limbs, and his vision faded, James’ regrets were rudely interrupted by something coppery and viscous being forced down his throat, followed by a savage stabbing at his neck. He should have realized what it meant. He should have fought back. But instead he’d let himself sink into oblivion, final thoughts turning to Elizabeth’s smile. Her laugh. Her sparkling eyes.

And so, James died.

Only to be revived as the very evil he’d dedicated his life to eradicating.

Another irony.

As is the fact that now that he is one of them, James is even better at hunting the undead. He’s stronger than he used to be. Faster. With a near precognitive perception of danger, a preternatural sense of balance, and a level of stamina that he could only have dreamed of before. He can move in total silence and see in absolute darkness. And his senses of smell, taste, and sound have heightened to the point of being a nuisance when he is not intentionally calling upon them.

But there is another side to these powers, and it’s not merely a sensitivity to sunlight and an inability to stand on consecrated ground. There’s an unmistakable increase in the intensity and force of his emotions. He’d always exhibited such imitable mastery over them in the past, had prided himself on it, in fact. But everything is so much heavier now. So much more vibrant and acute. And James hates how vulnerable it makes him feel. Like his whole body is an exposed nerve.

Worse still...there is the hunger. The abominably persistent and all-encompassing thirst that marks him as damned. It grows with each passing hour, an ever-present reminder of the monster he has been made.

James has not been feeding. Not since the initial madness of being turned. Not since his...captivity and its accompanying horrors. He cannot. He will not. And so his state is deteriorating exponentially. A slow decline at first, but it’s starting to gain hideous momentum.

For now, however, it is still manageable. And James pours himself into the Hunt, hoping that he can facilitate at least some lasting good before the inevitable comes to pass, and Elizabeth must honor her promise to end him.

Until then…

James’ renewed purpose proves a worthy distraction.

And to that end-

They have been doing the vast majority of their work at night.

He finds that remaining in the shadows, both literally and figuratively, suits him these days. As he is no longer in complete control of himself, and has limitations on when and where he can venture out, what with being presumed dead and all, by necessity, Elizabeth takes over as leader of their dyad. She’s a natural, slipping easily into the role of command. And James is proud of her resilience even as he laments the need for her to step up in such a way.

But Elizabeth proves a different sort of superior than he. Perhaps even more ruthless, but more generous as well. Generous with her plans, which she always walks him through, step by step, ahead of time, and generous with her praise, quick to voice her encouragement or approval. James is cognizant that she sees him as an asset in addition to a partner. Which is...interesting...as he certainly hasn’t been made to feel this way by anyone before.

James has never been the type to abdicate the lead, but Elizabeth appears to be the exception to his rule. Perhaps it’s because he’s the one who trained her. Or perhaps it’s because he knows her so well, or because they’ve hunted together for so many years. Or perhaps it’s because somewhere deep inside...James is thoroughly exhausted. He’s been carrying the weight of everything for such a long time, refusing to share any portion of the burden out of a combination of responsibility and sheer, almost spiteful, resolve.

Now he has no choice. And it’s...a relief. Which is troubling.

But not nearly so troubling as his most recent discovery.

Elizabeth is attracted to him.

At first, he’d written it off as paranoia, but the signs are no longer deniable. It’s there in the minute dilation of her pupils, in the racing thrum of her heartbeat, in the heady scent of her womanhood. This knowledge is crippling, dismaying, and, above all, dangerously arousing.

Because James has always wanted Elizabeth, in one form or another.

And now she wants him back. Now that he has nothing to give, and everything to take.

It’s too much to bear. And yet he must.

He has to fight it. He has to.

But the call of the blood in her veins grows louder every day.

And James _wants._

He wants. He wants. He wants. He wants. He wants.

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear. It seems poor James is in a bad way. With luck, nothing will happen to further test his, as yet, insurmountable restraint. Such a thing could prove utterly catastrophic.
> 
> On an _entirely unrelated_ note, the next chapter will be dipping into that E rating. Just as a heads up. >:3
> 
> Until then, know that your kind words and positive feedback give me tremendous encouragement. And I appreciate each and every one of you, dear readers!
> 
> See you in two weeks! ~


	3. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the inevitable occurs.

Another evening, another successful hunt. At this rate, they’ll put themselves out of a job by the end of the year. The thought makes Elizabeth laugh, which sends ripples through the now tepid bathwater to lap at the sides of the copper basin she’s been soaking in for the better part of an hour.

She’d sent Estrella to bed shortly after the tub was filled, assuring the yawning lady’s maid that she could manage the rest on her own. It didn’t take much convincing, for by then, the clock had already struck midnight. And, while Elizabeth might default to a later sleep schedule these days, her household staff does not.

Which is fortunate, for it means James’ nighttime visitations have, as yet, gone undiscovered.

He doesn’t come by often, or rather, not so often as she’d like, but tonight, Elizabeth badgered him into agreeing to a celebratory drink in the wee hours of the morning. They may not be any closer to a cure- though she’s sent away for information, taking care to leave out the reason for her sudden interest, she has yet to hear back- but they have nearly rooted out the local coven. The progress is a much needed victory, and she intends to revel in it.

A glance at the clock tells her James should be here soon. Time to get out and get dressed to receive him.

\---

When Elizabeth opens the doors to her private sitting room, she finds James already in attendance, pacing the floor in front of the fireplace. He ceases all movement as she enters, and, already, she can tell something is wrong. She idly fingers the fringe of her still damp braid where it rests against the fabric of her dressing gown as she tries to parse out what that something could be.

‘And a good evening to you too, James,’ she deadpans as she crosses to the sideboard to pour two snifters of brandy. He doesn’t respond to her sarcasm, and his hand shakes as he accepts the glass.

‘Is something the matter?’ She ventures, concern lacing her tone, and rather than reply, he drains the glass in one go, all the while avoiding her eyes. She sets her own portion aside and takes a step toward him.

James retreats a step back.

She takes another step forward.

He falls back an equal distance. And still he does not meet her gaze.

‘James. What is going on?’

No answer.

‘Will you please look at me?’

He shakes his head.

‘Why not?’ The question comes out harsher than she’d intended, but his behavior is worrying her. And something in the air has her on alert, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

‘I need to go,’ he grinds out, voice ragged, and starts toward the terrace doors.

Elizabeth heads him off at the pass, arms stretched out to block his flight. ‘No, you _need_ to tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Get out of my way, Elizabeth.’ His tone would be threatening...had he not just attempted to flee from her.

‘No.’

‘I can make you.’

Elizabeth levels a glare at him. ‘You can try.’

There is a charged beat where neither of them so much as twitch, then, without preamble, Elizabeth whips a hand forward, intending to take hold of his. But before she can, James recoils just as quickly, stumbling into the side table and tipping her full glass of brandy over the edge. It shatters against the floorboards, and both of them watch the amber liquid soak into the corner of the rug in silence.

‘James...’ she begins as soothingly as she can, but he still jolts at her use of his name. ‘You haven’t been feeding, have you?’

At this, his gaze finally climbs to hers. There is a wild quality there, mingled with guilt. For the first time, she notes that the shadows along his cheeks seem deeper, his eyes seem sunken and bruised.

 _My God, he’s been starving himself!_ Elizabeth scowls. _Of all the foolish, stubborn…_ ‘Answer me,’ she demands.

‘I have not.’

She sighs in frustration. He must be in a great deal of agony. _Avoidable_ agony, but agony nonetheless. And it is plucking at her heart-strings. It should have occurred to her sooner that James wouldn’t take initiative in such a way.

‘I shall make discreet inquiries with the local slaughterhouse come morning, but that could be too long.’ She begins to roll the right sleeve of her robe. ‘In the meantime, I shall have to suffice.’

James looks appalled. ‘No,’ he rasps. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘You don’t have the luxuries of time or choice right now, James,’ she counters, arms akimbo. ‘Your own actions have seen to that.’

Truth be told, now that the idea has occurred to her, Elizabeth finds herself swiftly warming to it. She doesn’t bother trying to deconstruct why, but the prospect of James feeding from her is...uniquely titillating.

She extends her bare arm toward him, wrist up, eyebrows raised in expectation, and James crumbles to his knees.

‘Please,’ he implores, beseeching eyes welling with tears. ‘Do not tempt me. I cannot-’

It is distressing to see him in such a state: trembling, begging, weeping on the floor before her. It churns Elizabeth’s stomach. But it also twines something electric around the base of her spine. In this moment, he is possibly the most dangerous creature she has ever come into direct contact with, and yet it is _she_ who is empowered.

Elizabeth reaches down and gently caresses his jawline, lifts his chin so that he must meet her gaze. Her voice is soft, but tinged with iron. ‘You will not refuse me, James.’

Slowly, his left hand raises, closing over her wrist one finger at a time until the tips all rest against her pulse point. The desperation in his green eyes is fading into something else, but he closes them so that she cannot determine what. James turns his head and presses a lingering kiss to her palm that steals the breath from her lungs.

She drags her thumb through one of the tears staining his cheek, anticipation curling hot and low in her gut. His lips lift from her flesh only a fraction, his own breath ghosting across her exposed wrist. His brows knit in torment. James is losing his struggle to stay in control, she senses it even before the blunt edges of his teeth graze her skin. His tongue darts out to taste her, and he looses a garbled, needy noise that slithers down her spine and straight to her core.

It is unfathomably thrilling to watch him wrestle with himself in this way, knowing that she is the source of it. He wants her, he _needs_ her, and the idea of being the one to physically sustain him is flooding her with arousal. Elizabeth blinks under that weight of it, a telltale moisture gathering between her legs.

‘Bid me to stop,’ James whispers, a final plea.

‘I will not.’

He shudders, drawing back just enough to drag in a quavering breath, and the firelight glints off the pearly curve of his descending fangs. Elizabeth has all of a second to wonder at their appearance before they plunge into her flesh.

It _hurts!_ Dear _God,_ but it hurts! She gasps at the stabbing pain that emanates up her arm, fighting the impulse to snatch her hand away. But then, he begins to drink her, and it is an entirely new sensation that leaves her gasping.

Euphoria. A potent, swelling tide that starts in her wrist and sings through her veins into the rest of her body. Her skin tingles. Her eyes water. Her sex _throbs._ Elizabeth’s knees threaten to give out, and she casts out her free hand, bracing it upon James’ shoulder to steady herself.

And still he devours her, lips closed around her wrist, eyes screwed shut until a wanton moan bubbles out of her unbidden. At this, they flick open to capture her own, and the vicious hunger that swirls in their depths is exhilarating. Elizabeth’s hand slides along the slope of his shoulder to his neck, where her gaze snags on the peristaltic jerk of his Adam’s apple.

A fresh wave of rapture rushes through her, and she tangles the fingers of that same hand into his hair, tugging at the roots, causing James to emit a sound that would best be described as a growl.

 _Oh,_ she thinks as her head swims, her vision blackening at the edges. _How could anything be so wonderful? So right?_

There is a final, devastatingly powerful surge of pleasure, and Elizabeth keens loud and long before toppling to the floor, unconscious.

\---

As Elizabeth hits the floorboards, her wrist is ripped out of James’ grasp, and it’s like he’s woken from a trance.

_What have I done?_

Panicked, he scoops up her limp form, frantic fingers hunting for a pulse under her jaw. It’s there, thank Christ. Weak and fluttering, but there. Elizabeth is still alive.

James’ arms tighten around her, the severity of his relief manifesting in chaste kisses peppered across the planes of her perfect face. But the feeling is short-lived, for the thready flow of her blood beneath his fingertips is reasserting itself to the forefront of his awareness.

God _damn_ him. He wants _more._

No.

Enough. He’s had enough.

It had been bliss like he’s never felt, a slaking of a thirst that was deep-rooted and terrible. To penetrate her, to cover his tongue in her flavor and fill his nose with her scent, to have her respond to him with lust in her gaze, he has wanted all of it for so very long.

But not like this. Never like this.

As he carries her to bed, wraps the puncture wound on her wrist, tucks her beneath the blankets, and admires the peaceful expression her countenance adopts in her repose, James is overcome by the horrifying truth that there is no such thing as enough.

So long as he is afflicted, now more than ever, Elizabeth is in grave danger from him.

Unless he can learn to control the monster he has become.

\---

When Elizabeth wakes, it is still before dawn, the stars winking at her through the crack in her curtains. She stretches, and in doing so, finds a bandage wrapped around her wrist. James’ work, no doubt. She smiles. And then she sits up, suddenly parched. After flipping back the duvet, she hurries to the pitcher on the sideboard and sucks down gulp after gulp of water, feeling stray droplets sliding down her chin and neck in her haste.

Once she has finally drunk her fill, Elizabeth dries her mouth on the sleeve of her dressing gown and takes stock of her condition. She’s a bit light-headed, and there is a tender knot on the back of her head, but otherwise...she feels good. Great, even.

How unexpected.

She finds James still in her sitting room, seated in front of a new fire and staring into the flames. She takes a moment to appreciate the handsome angles of his profile in the flickering light before padding into the room. He’s heard her enter, she’s sure, for he hears _everything_ these days, and so she doesn’t worry that she might startle him with her approach.

He rises when she’s almost to him, nervous as a schoolboy. She fights a laugh.

‘You- you’re awake. How…how do you feel?’

‘Surprisingly rested. Though my head aches a little.’

‘You fell,’ he states simply.

He looks much better than before. Healthy and strong. _She_ did that to him. _Her blood_ did that to him. The knowledge sends a frisson of pride through her. She raises her wrapped wrist. ‘I suppose I have you to thank for this?’

James’ expression sinks, his eyes filling with shame, but Elizabeth will not abide it. This whole thing had arguably been more her choice than his, after all.

‘How do _you_ feel, James?’

He doesn’t answer, won’t meet her eyes. It’s a confirmation that feeding on her had been exactly what he needed, and she smirks at having been right. ‘What was it like for you?

James’ eyes creep back to hers, but still he doesn’t speak. Very well. She is more than capable of doing the talking. ‘Shall I tell you what it was like for me?’ she asks silkily, and then, without waiting for a response- ‘Ecstacy, James. The greatest ecstasy I have ever known.’

She waits, watches the admission crack through his attempted veneer of indifference. His eyes fall closed, and he murmurs thickly, ‘It was like that for me too.’

‘And yet you are ashamed?’

‘Of course I am ashamed!’ he snaps. ‘What I have taken from you-’

‘Was freely given, James. Which, by definition, means it was not ‘taken’ so much as received. A gift.’

‘A gift,’ he repeats flatly.

‘Yes,’ she affirms, and then all but purrs, ‘And not the first I’ve wished to give you.’

James seems nonplussed by this, but she forges on in order to keep from losing her momentum. Now is as good a time as any to come clean- to achieve the exquisite catharsis of finally being laid bare to him. After all, she’s already quite literally in his veins.

‘James...I have loved you since I was twelve years old. And I’ve been _in love_ with you for nearly as long. I have never truly wanted anyone else. Only you. Always you. For as long as I’ve known how to want. And I would give you any part of myself that you are willing to take: body, soul, heart, or mind.’

‘I didn’t spare you merely because you were my partner. I didn’t volunteer my blood simply because you would otherwise be a liability. I did it because I _love_ you, James. I love you. I already lost you once, and I cannot lose you again. I _will_ not.’

James is having visible difficulty processing her words, opening his mouth to reply and then closing it again several times before haltingly asking ‘...so...you never loved any of the others?’

The others? He knew? How did he- it doesn’t matter. The question gives her hope. ‘Not a one,’ she confirms.

He licks his lips, brows drawn. ‘Why did you not tell-’ He stops. Closes his eyes. It seems he’s answered his own query. ‘What a fool I’ve been.’

‘I hope you’re not expecting me to disagree.’

James rolls right over her playful jibe. ‘I was trying to do the right thing. Focusing on what was important.’ He sighs and then adds, grumbling, ‘And look where that’s brought me.’

Elizabeth closes the short distance between them, taking his hand in one of hers and using the other to angle his face toward her. ‘It has brought you right here. To me. To us. Perhaps not in the way either of us had wanted...but we are here regardless.’

‘But it’s too late,’ he intones dejectedly.

She mislikes this response enormously, rolling her eyes. Her annoyance is evident in her riposte. ‘Why? Because you are afflicted? Don’t be so dramatic, James.’

He stiffens, clearly insulted.

_Good. Serves him right._

Elizabeth’s hand drops from his face to his chest, where she grabs a fistful of his shirt and yanks him toward her. He lurches forward, surprised. Their lips are inches apart. Her visage is as severe as she can make it, anger twisting her mouth and making a ridge of her brows.

‘Do you love me or not?’

He blinks once. Twice. ‘Fiercely.’ But that doesn’t seem enough, for he adds, ‘Ardently.’

‘Then that settles it.’

And Elizabeth crushes her mouth to his, taking advantage of his gasp of shock by slipping her tongue past his lips and plundering his own. Her other hand wraps around the back of his neck, preventing him from escaping, drawing him to her all the more.

But it seems James doesn’t intend to attempt escape, for he groans into her mouth as one hand grips her hip and the other one tangles in her hair.

Now, it is _her_ turn to devour _him._

Elizabeth forces James backward with her onslaught until his shoulder blades hit one of the bookcases lining the wall with enough force that the displayed trinkets rattle upon impact. She seizes his bottom lip between hers and sucks hard before slowly pulling back, her teeth still holding on until she is finally too far away. She uses the break in contact to observe what her ministrations have wrought, and is more than pleased by her findings.

James’ breathing is as labored as hers, gusting out of him in great huffs. His hooded eyes are dark and swimming with lust. And Elizabeth _wants._ So Elizabeth _takes._

She presses a tender kiss to the tip of his chin and then nudges it upward with her nose so that she may kiss the underside as well, beginning an open-mouthed line down the exposed column of his neck. She feels him swallow beneath her lips, flicks out her tongue to lap up the salt of his sweat, and he whimpers. _James whimpers._ So she does it again, lower and lower, dipping into the hollow of his throat and branching out to nip at his collar bone.

And oh! How divine it is to be the one unraveling him so! And not as prey this time, but as a woman. A woman who means to have him, for every inch of her is crying out for him. A symphonic chorus of need.

Her hands slide down to tug his shirt from his breeches, her fingers flying over the fastenings only to be snared in his own. She looks up to find a most pained expression on his face.

‘Elizabeth,’ he slurs as though drunk. ‘ _Please…_ ’

As it is unclear what he’s asking her for, Elizabeth decides to change tactics. She takes two steps back, savoring the way James sways forward at the loss of her. Then she shrugs out of her dressing gown, letting it cascade to the floor in a silken heap.

She plucks at the laces of her chemise, watching James track her movements with suddenly sharp eyes. The neckline gapes, slips down over the swell of one shoulder, then the other, and then the garment pools at her feet, exposing her completely.

‘Please what, James?’

By the time his gaze has skimmed over her naked form and returned to hers, it is blazing, so feverishly green, she gasps. She gasps again when he promptly crosses the space between them and claims her lips in a savage kiss of his own.

He drinks down her mewls of pleasure like a man dying of thirst, his fervid hands scorching paths across her skin. The evidence of his arousal is bruising her abdomen even as her own slickens her thighs. His tongue slices into her mouth, and she is drowning in an intoxicating mix of brandy and spice and the coppery tang of her own blood. The latter has no right to be so erotic, but it is all the same.

James spins her around, and, in a few quick strides, it is Elizabeth who is up against the bookcase. She practically climbs his body then, hoisting herself up using his broad shoulders, her legs wrapping around his thighs, and then rising to clamp above his hips. He bucks into her, seemingly without meaning to, and they moan almost in harmony.

‘Shirt. Off.’ She commands breathlessly, and he swiftly complies, dragging the offending garment over his head and tossing it some indeterminate direction. Her fingers trace the previously forbidden contours of his chest and arms and abdomen. James generously permits her this indulgence, his own hands stroking up the underside of her thighs, curling around the globes of her ass, and giving a luxurious squeeze that spikes straight to her already soaking sex.

Questing fingertips glide down to the placket of his breeches once more, and Elizabeth pauses to cast a questioning glance up at him, seeking permission. It is granted by way of squeezing her asscheeks again, and she squeaks out a soft noise that is half shock, half delight. He smirks at having caused it, and oh, how that small sign of self-satisfaction from him has her arousal spiraling to outrageous heights.

She is going to fuck it right off his face.

With renewed resolve, Elizabeth finally frees James’ cock from the increasingly snug confines of his breeches, and gently ghosts her fingers down every delicious inch of him. He shivers, forehead falling against her own, breath hissing in through clenched teeth.

‘At last,’ she exults as she lines him up with her dripping entrance. ‘Oh, James, I’ve wanted this for so long.’

He responds by thrusting up into her with one single, powerful stroke, and Elizabeth momentarily forgets how to breathe. She’s so full. Full of him. Oh, _God,_ he’s inside of her, and life makes sense in a way it never has before. Then his lips close over hers, and he starts to move.

James pulls nearly all the way out before slamming back in with enough force that one of the books by her elbow thuds to the floor. Elizabeth’s right hand shoots out to grip the edge of the bookcase for leverage, and his own hand follows, gripping her bandaged wrist and trapping it there. He licks into her mouth and then sets a punishing pace, hips pistoning, cock filling her to the hilt over and over and over.

Elizabeth writhes against him, grinding down in time with his thrusts, selfishly chasing her bliss. When his mouth leaves hers to latch onto the sensitive flesh beneath her ear, she is utterly unable to stymie the stream of emphatic curses that tumbles from her lips as her free hand weaves its way into his glorious hair.

Already, she is pulsing around him, so desperately close that she is mad with it. James is no better off, snarling against her skin, teeth raking across the tendons of her neck. In her crazed state, Elizabeth has forgotten all about the threat he presents, and if she still possessed the ability to form sentences, she might very well beg him to feed from her again.

But he proves to have more self-control than she, his open mouth trailing back to hers, claiming it in a searing kiss just as sparks of pleasure start sizzling up her spine and down into her extremities. She concentrates on the magnificent stretch within, the spectacular rasp of him against that special spot inside her. It’s all building to a crescendo, sharpening to a point, and _dear God,_ if she doesn’t come _now,_ she will positively perish.

And then she does, gasping as she crests that shimmering peak and plummets over the other side, limbs shaking and eyes brimming with unshed tears. Her inner walls bear down on James’ cock with all the ferocity of an avalanche, and a wail wrenches out of her throat despite her best efforts to hold it back.

James keeps his brutal rhythm until she’s riding the aftershocks of what has been, undeniably, the most intense orgasm of her life. Then, when he can resist it no longer, he follows after her with a prolonged moan that reverberates from deep in his chest.

They remain in that position for some time, still entangled, trying to catch their breath. When she has regained command of her faculties, Elizabeth nudges James’ nose with her own and then plants a chaste kiss on the tip of it, prompting him to meet her gaze.

She merely looks into his eyes for the better part of a minute, her fingers slipping out of his hair to skate over the ledge of his cheekbone, the ridge of his brow, the edge of his jaw. Then a smile tugs at the corners of her lips.

‘I simply cannot imagine a life without you, James.’

He leans into her gentle touch, green eyes sparkling. ‘Nor I you.’

‘Carry me to bed?’

He smiles, and it is so genuine, so devoid of his trademark caution, her heart melts.

‘As you say, my love.’

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap on the Norribeth Vampire AU! What did you think? Punch that review button and let me know! Or, hop on over to [tumblr](https://norrington-hell.tumblr.com/) and slide into my dms! I do _so_ love hearing from my darling readers!
> 
> Thank you, one and all, for coming along on this diverting little romp with me. I am, as always, humbled by your kind words and enthusiastic praise. Know that you inspire me with your consistent warmth and generosity. And it is my honor to offer up my works to such a wonderfully encouraging community.
> 
> But I'm not done yet! Not by a long shot! There's more Norribeth to be written, and it is my full intention to go on composing until either my muse abandons me, or my senses fail me.
> 
> So keep a weather eye on the horizon! ~
> 
> Also, a very special thanks-
> 
> To _lizzieswan_ and _dangerbats,_ for reaching out to swap ideas and collaborating to come up with all new ones.  
> To _bluethunder_ and _vasilysa,_ for generously lending your significant writing talents to the Norribeth writing community in such a way that I feel personally seen and appreciated.  
> To Katy and Bea-Sim, for your concerted efforts to help build and maintain a positive, open, and inviting atmosphere in our little corner of the fandom.  
> To Madeline, for your continued love and support in all my endeavors. Especially those that channel that good, good Hozier energy.
> 
> And to Nicole. It has been two years, five months, and fifteen days since you and I first interacted. Two years, five months, and fifteen days since you reached out to encourage and uplift a complete stranger for no other reason than kindness. There has not been a single day since where I was not grateful to have met you.
> 
> Thank you for everything, my dear friend.
> 
> This one was for you.


End file.
